


Serendipity

by Pearla



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:17:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearla/pseuds/Pearla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The disastrous love affair ended, Persia Cousland flees Ferelden for Orlais on the day of the King's coronation. Two years later Zevran finds her, but even the King's best laid plans can go awry. Dragon Age: O & II character cameos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Fairy Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Serendipity is the effect by which one accidentally stumbles upon something fortunate, especially while looking for something entirely unrelated.
> 
>  _"She says people ought to learn to live like them, with the body abandoned in a wilderness, and in the mind the memory of a single kiss, a single word, a single look to stand for a whole love."_  
>  -Marguerite Duras

After Ostagar, the numbness was better than the tearing at her heart as Duncan was forced to drag her from the abattoir that was once her home. Alistair's grief was easier to watch; the impact creeping through him, the realized horror in his voice, the way nightmares left purple shadows under his eyes, the bitter retelling of men that never became the heroes they were groomed to be.

After wandering through a doomed town she finds herself coaxing him into letting her help him bear the loss. She realized that he was then a new brother of an order with only a footnote in history. It brought her up short, like the hand on her shoulder giving her strength to walk into a damned tower, full of living nightmares.

He acted strange alternating between fidgety, tight lipped fear and quiet tremors when they wended their way toward Redcliffe, she paused long enough to ask him why. The answer should have surprised her, instead she felt like it was all a bizarre fairy tale.  _This is just like a fool driven adventure story!_

Persia watched the light play across his face from the nearby fire. She thinks, he isn't wild or rough, his charm lies in the fact that he is soft even with all of his training, the studied way of his with sword and shield. More than anything he is brave and kind. She loved him then, just a little bit, but the volition had already taken hold. He will be King. The serendipity of the whole situation is far too coincidental for anything other.

She had taken the swamp witch into her confidences long before this and when she finally confesses that she is a  _little_  in love with the almost templar, Morrigan laughs. Admitting that rather than to do the enchanted things of lovers' past; she plans to throw her heart down the cliffs of destiny and make him the king he was always supposed to be, she doesn't laugh. Which comes as a surprise. Instead Morrigan looks at her and nods, sighing the long sound of those accustomed to the whims of a power beyond them.

After Eamon wakes up from his fade clouded coma, he knows. She doesn't know how he knows, but when he pulls her aside and she divulges her plans, the smile on his face brilliant.

The deep roads scare everyone. When they make camp they are drawn close together. They all stand within the light of the same campfire, listening to the echoes of the dead myths Leliana whispers so the sound doesn't echo off the rocks encompassing them.

Goldanna is rough and sharp-tongued, embittered by years of labor. She turns Alistair away and when goes to her, she tells him the truth he will have to learn as King.  _It is like this... Always, everyone really is out for themselves._ His face contorts once, a terrible fact. He still manages a smile for her.

The Dalish are angry and sad, humming with gods trapped between the dark, twisted souls of old and the Maker, Andraste. Zevran tries not to scoff at them. Oghren laughs, mocking their strange words. Alistair tries to speak with them, to understand.

When the time comes to promise everything, she simply doesn't promise Cailan's widow anything. Choosing to announce Alistair's birthright as King before the Landsmeet of Ferelden. It was a solemn affair until that moment, then it all went very lightning quick. Eamon at the head and heels of every decision.

He is very angry, but not for long because even he knows what must be done. What choice did they really have? You can't call for a Teyrn's blood and bow out of a kingship when you are the only one left.

She thinks their undoing will be the final battle when Riordan tells them that one must end, to finish it. It is not a King's duty, so it must fall to her, or Riordan. Like all good tales there is a loophole and Morrigan finds her crying, fear snaking through her,"Do this one selfish thing, for  _you_ __."

And so, she goes to the King-to-be and begs him. He must love her still, a little, because he does it. When she is weak, all of them unbearably tired, coughing up blood and bracing broken ribs she gives the final blow. With the soul of a god slithering up through her, she collapses.

When she wakes up it isn't in the fade, it is alive to watch him become the king. He takes the crown graciously, smiles to his subjects and as the cheers go up, she stumbles out into the impossibly bright world, to a ship headed down the Waking Sea.

Somewhere along the way she had tripped over her plans as he softly pressed the rose into her hands. Then he is the warmth in her tent and her heart, it happened as if it was always supposed to and she feels cheated of an impossibly bright future.

 


	2. Val Royeaux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or Bioware. I forgot to add this on the other chapter. Well, now that everyone knows.
> 
> Author's Note: My chapter tend to be really short, sorry. I also make mistakes, so if you see any don't hesitate to point them out.
> 
>  
> 
> _"How wrong is it for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself?"  
>  -Anais Nin_

It was almost two years to the day of her arrival in Orlais. Stepping off the ship she had taken pause at all the ladies in their finery, while she stood around in her armor, forever the odd duckling.

Orlais, Val Royeaux in particular always had a brighter air about it, more vivacious. It was a land of refinement, not like Highever, or Denerim. When she walked by the shops the combined smells of numerous perfumes made her head swim almost unpleasantly on the hottest days. Though after years of being covered in blood and gore she would pass the perfumeries and pause at each atelier, letting the scents envelope her. And the dresses, the colors were enchanting to behold: emeralds, deep sapphires, canary yellows, luscious pinks, demure purples. She drifted into one with the lowest decollete and copious amounts of green silk fabrics hung in the window.

"Edmée? I am here to pick up my order for the fete." It had taken her half a year to relearn all the dances her mother had taught her, then she had to learn every new Orlesian hairstyle, and work on her accent. At least her parents had insisted she learn Orlesian, assuming they would either be at worst, invaded again, or make peace.

Edmée was full of good cheer, with dark brown hair, dancing blue eyes and she was always full of repartee's. "I hear Dean Rose tricked you into coming to his fete. Something about a doorman quite early in the morning?"

Persia caught herself blushing, "Gossip! He sent one of his servants by every morning for two weeks until I finally agreed. I thought he would never stop, at this point I'm not so sure he would have."

Truthfully, three days in Dean's advances had stopping being bewildering and amusing to unwanted and exceedingly annoying. His servant showed up at the crack of dawn each morning to wake her. He would shuffle his feet, mumble and hand her his lord's letter. This happened every morning until she simply accepted it, just to get some sleep.

"He wouldn't have, I can assure you. He has had his sights on you since you bought the house by the river," Edmée paused in the middle of pinning a purple and gold dress, "Here, you have no idea how long those seed pearls took me to sew in."

She thanked her and made her way down toward the seaside markets. Smelling the lower markets were all that ever reminded her of Highever, the smell of fish and the salt tang of the sea. The smell was forever drawing her down to hear the lull and roar of the Waking Sea, the shipyard workers hollering out to one another over the din of voices from every province and country of Thedas.

Word from Ferelden had been sparse since she had arrived, nothing of the King other than the scandal that he wasn't yet married, but that was regular news and people were tired of it here. Shortly after she arrived rumors began spreading that the Hero of Ferelden had disappeared from the coronation, with no one the wiser as to her whereabouts. A bard had been singing of her, not allowing her tale to be forgotten and even more salacious... an assassin was seeking her out! All of this was old news regardless of the number of times she visited.

Inwardly she sighed, it was nothing to be worried out. Someone would find her, but she was betting that they wouldn't, mostly she hoped they wouldn't or couldn't.

The waves lapped gently at the large timbers holding up the dock and her mind turned over the name of the King slowly; brushing against it gently like fingers along his jaw, her pain a little more muted. _The King_ , that was easier to say, less familiar.

It had become so much easier to just not think. That's how she lived her life now. No more training or fighting. A day at a time. Things crept in, memories that were easier to bear here by the sea. She started getting up and finding her way down here once a day—more in the beginning –working it out while standing near the water. A memory here and there at first, other days would be a whirlwind of them. _Breathe_ , she would tell herself, allowing herself to feel them here in front of others. Sometimes she'd think _leagues and leagues_ and that helped with the  darkspawn dreams that crept in, too. Did he feel her in the fade during those nightmares?

She found her way back to the two story house that she called her own, the Dauphine more than happy to remunerate her for her deeds and the defeat of the darkspawn. Entering the foyer she tossed her package into a nearby chair, thinking that she hadn't been that discreet about her whereabouts, surly anyone asking around could find her easily. Having left Ferelden on the first ship going anywhere, she could just as well have been in Antiva now.

She snorted, "Then Zevran really would have found me. Thibault! Thib, where are you?"

They could have just asked about a mabari and found her, she thought. They couldn't have asked about a mabari named Albert since she saw it fitting to rename him and he was smart enough to answer to Thib. It was a better name than Bert. The King had loved to call him Bert.

Where was he?

"Thib? Thibby? Oh, my dear old dog?" She had an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach as she moved to the stairway. The house looked undisturbed, but perhaps someone had been inside it. Climbing the stairs, she had been so long without the fear of imminent death that she wasn't quite sure where the closest dagger was. Mentally, she counted: _one in bed, one by the foyer fireplace, one attached to the chair on the second floor-_

"Oh." Quickly and as quietly as she could, her breath ragged with fear as reached under the pink fleur de lis patterned chair and wrenched the dagger out from underneath it. She'd been calling for Thibault so any intruder would already know she was here.

Making herself march to the door of her bedroom she contemplated kicking it open, but in case she was being foolish she decided to twist the knob with as much speed as possible and stand to the left. No point in having to fix a door when she paid too much for a party dress today as is.

With all her force the door whooshed open and banged against the wall with enough force to leave an indent where the doorknob hit. _Smooth._ Yelling out an obscure war cry that smacked of Oghren's influence, she jumped forward to find an elf with blond hair hanging down his back feeding Thib treats.

It felt like the intruder had gotten the slip on her and punched her squarely in the gut, "Zevran?"


	3. An Old Friend

_"What she said was always strange. It had happened long ago. It seemed insignificant. And yet it was something you remembered forever. The words as well as the story. The voice as much as the words."_   
_-Marguerite Duras_

**Old Friend**

He turned to her a smile, it played at the corners of his lips, his face set with more determination than she remembered. "Albert looks well. Or... what did I hear you calling him?"

"Thib." The word comes out a little softer, the dagger hanging limply in the air between them.

"I liked Albert better, but I see your tastes have changed." His smile widens, his white teeth peeping out.

"It took you a long time-"

"To find you? No, no. I knew where you were from the beginning. You left so quickly, but I saw you. The dock hands noticed what ship you boarded. At the very least, I had an idea." His eyes were saying _give me credit_ , but his hand reached up between them, he took the weapon from her.

"Well, you certainly waited a long time!" _How_ do _you trick an assassin? You don't._ She was trying to be flippant, but her heart was still racing. Maybe the king had sent him to find her and finish her off. _Where does his loyalty lie now?_

Thibault jumped off the bed and woofed at her gently, trying to tell her it was alright, he settled for snuffling at her hand before she reached down to pat him. "I don't know what to say. It's been two years." What if the rumors were true?

He shrugged, "Leliana misses you."

"Then she should come back to Orlais. She could visit me." She hears her voice coming out harsh, this wasn't the way you were supposed to treat your friends.

"I think she likes the part of courier and bard far too much in Ferelden's court." Zevran laughs, eyes her, the beginning of a story obvious on his tongue, but he stops.

_Don't. Be pleasant._ This time it is her mother's voice in her head, forcing her hand. "H-how are you? I hope you are well."

Zevran always cut to the heart of the matter with her, even though he loved pleasantries and banter, knew when she was using it to parry the truth. "When you left, he asked. He went looking. All those things ex-lovers do. Or are supposed to do. I chose not to tell him. I always wondered, why else would you leave? Did you have your heart set on him and the throne? Morrigan said you didn't."

The past is vivid in the caress of his voice, perhaps he is a spirit come to seduce her memories, "No. I don't want it. Didn't." _Just to be clear._

He brings two chairs over, sits down. His armor is different, a deep green and black with silver buckles that resemble stylized mabari. She considers it, hands clamped behind her back.

"Sit."

She does. Leg crossed, hands clasped in her lap.

"What would you have done if I hadn't come to find you? You wouldn't have come back, I know this. So tell me... how is Orlais?"

"I have a few friends, it took me a long time. I learned Orlesian in Ferelden so they could barely understand a word I said! Val Royeaux is beautiful, I never imagined it could be so. I came here expecting something else entirely." Glancing down at her boots, then back up she looks at him and is a hardly surprised to see that he is wearing Antivan leather. Maybe he had been traveling.

"No lovers?"

"Not exactly." Flushing fiercely, she is forced to look up as he laughs.

"No one quiet so pretty as me?" He shrugs, flips his hair, winks.

_Must be calm, must be careful._ She uncrosses her legs, licks her lips, "Zevran, why are you here? You could have come much sooner."

"I was out and about. Maybe I was looking for Grey Wardens." His smile turns pointed, she shifts under his gaze. She wasn't going to get any information from him this way.

It's almost to much to admit it to herself. She wanted her mind to still, the room to stop half-heartily spinning. Her voice raises up, cracking,"He sent you, didn't _he_?"

"After two years? He's given up, _bella_. I was looking for warden recruits. The King is in a fervor to rebuild everything! The castle is shining with his glory, the bards are giving him a title and Ferelden is becoming powerful, refined...all those words one would use for Antiva or Orlais."

"Mmm." Getting up and taking her dagger back from him, she heads out down to the foyer. If he wasn't going to inform her as to why he was in Orlais she wasn't going to waste time with him. Gathering up the soft shelled box she removes the dress from the wrapping. Edmée called the hue 'Seheron' green when Persia looked over the swatches with her. It was this or 'Ferelden Racing', but it didn't seem to bring out the color in her eyes and she didn't think she wanted to be reminded of the place any more than she had to be.

"A lovely color, to be sure." Zevran had followed her, his steps soundless.

"I thought so, I have a party to attend tonight." She knew it for a mistake as soon as she said it, but as she flashes him a bright smile she finds herself begging: _Please_ _, don't invite yourself._

Like most assassins and especially those who have known their mark for a long time, he quirks an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side, "I have a mind to follow you."

There is no getting out of it. He'd come along no matter what she would say.


	4. Slow

_"The leaf fall of his words, the stained glass hues of his moods, the rust in his voice, the smoke in his mouth, his breath on my vision like human breath blinding a mirror."  
-Anais Nin_

**Slow**

Having pinned up her hair, rouged her cheeks and lips, she laces up her dress as best as possible in the fading light. The tense conversation with her visitor has lasted longer than had been anticipated. She diffuses perfume in the air and steps through it on her way to crack the door and listen.

Zevran had chosen to change in the room left of the foyer, on the lower level. Though were he had a sack of clothes stashed she had no clue. It had always been a source of curiosity for all members during the Blight, in fact there had been a pool reaching infamous levels as they all sought to find where he hid his possessions. Not a one of them had found anything.

Thib followed her as she closed the door to her room, silently creeping down the stairs. Gently, she rubs behind his ears and shushes him with a finger to her lips as she slips out the front door. Revelers are traveling to and fro, dandies stepping through the doorsteps of the famed Orlesian courtesans who are laughing near illuminated windows. The aura of oleanders, lilies and roses float up through the night from the gardens of each building. Even as she thought to fade into the night movement catches her eye. He is next to her, his arm proffered.

He doesn't speak, this being the avant-garde behavior that defines Zevran. Flashing a glance at his clothes she is forced to admit that he has always known the correct dress wear for any occasion; a primarily black ensemble with a smoky golden vest, an emerald tie contrasting above a snowy cotton button down.

As they travel along the busy street, the river thrumming lowly in their ears, "Dean won't be happy to see you with me. He spent a great deal of time persuading me to come."

"Then he should have made his intentions clear, asked for you outright. Like I would have done." He isn't smiling, but he is gazing at her, eyes flicking up to meet hers. It all feels very cat and mouse to her with the spark in his eyes.

He brushes his fingers along the silk of her gown and they continue along the cobbled side streets, nearing the Great Cathedral of Val Royeaux. The bells humming in the bellows and the voices of chantry sisters rising above it. For months they used to wake her up, startled from nightmares and convinced the resounding peels were warning alarms.

Dean's estate is small, essentially just a city house; tonight every light was ablaze, the faint sounds of tinkling laughter emanating from it. While it would be easier to walk inside and face Dean, she stops Zevran. He looks at her her, vaguely irked for a moment before his face clears and she can't be sure she had actually seen it. Detaching her hand from his arm, "Nothing inappropriate. Please."

He tsks her, "You worry so!"

Perhaps the look on Dean's face, a sort of startled bemusement that darkens to sour glances as the night wears on is what makes her laugh and drink too much brandy. Perhaps it is Zevran's hands, which are _everywhere_ and _nowhere_ it shouldn't be when anyone in the room would notice. Finally, being able to greet Dean properly as Zevran is away getting more drinks. She endeavors not to fall over her skirts. Before she can begin, Dean is being gracious about her dress and complimenting everything about here there is to compliment.

"Well, yes, thank you." This is all she can finish with and he is looking at her sadly, a bit familiar now that she thinks about it. "You remind me of someone I used to know in Ferelden."

_Urg._ Because now his face is flushed and has reached up to toss a hand through his hair and his voice is light, but false, "That is very kind of you. And who may I ask do I remind you of?"

This, she thinks, is why she doesn't drink. "He was a friend of mine, a warden actually and the uh-"

"Cousin of an Arl." Zevran is back and has saved her from saying _The King_ and having the whole awful story forced out of her.

Dean's blue eyes are focused on the elf and she has the distinct feeling that the room is turning too hot very quickly. "Oh. Which cousin?"

"Twice removed from the family, a little slow, but very, very nice." Zevran's voice is so slick that he has enough time to pull Persia outside before she or Dean notices the 'slow' part. Mutually silent, she finds herself striving not to fall face first in the street, ripping her dress and walking fast enough to keep up with Zevran.

Perhaps she is very drunk because her house looms into view much quicker than she expected it to and suddenly he has her hands hitched up, locked in his and the heat of his breath on her face, the spice scent flooding her. The air is sucked out between them as his lips melds against hers.


	5. Deception

_We may be_   
_on this road but_   
_we're just_   
_impostors_   
_in this country you know  
_ _-Tori Amos, A Sorta Fairytale_

**Deception**

His fingers at the back of her neck urging her forward, pressing her further against him. Thighs shaking, the realization that she is _kissing Zevran_ clicks into place, but then he is breaking the kiss, trailing his fingers along her neck, breathing words into her ear. Meaningless, but they sound like a devotion.

As he pulls back, frees her from the door, there is something, _something_ in the look on his face. Rather than study him, she sighs, her breath coming short and broken. Placing strands of her hair back, forcing her eyes down and away from him. "What is this?"

"Companionship." He exhales the word back to her, as he meanders through to the door.

By the end of the first week Persia abandons the idea of asking him when he'll return to Ferelden. After two days in the small room by the foyer, he moves himself to the second floor room next to her own. He doesn't bother to ask, just does it with the easy grace of a knowing friend.

Even with Thib at her side she has to admit she was lonely. The few friends she did have spent much of the time in the countryside, especially in the summer and besides a few small parties she attended, she spent a lot of time around the house. These things were hard to admit to herself.

Before she was just a Teyrn's daughter playing with swords, squirming under the rules of her family.

Defeating the archdemon was supposed to have been the end of her. Despite that task it was expected that the Grey Wardens be rebuilt and rather than face it... she had withdrawn and fled. She had quit being a Grey Warden somewhere along the path to Orlais. In all truth, even in the beginning she wasn't sure how much more of it should could take. Always she acted as leader, it was a ceaseless, daunting undertaking, filled with just as many waking nightmares as the darkspawn choked dreams.

Zevran must have observed her increasingly darkening disposition; he found her sitting at the kitchen table with her hands bunched around a chilled cup of tea, staring at nothing in particular. It was his voice that snapped her out of her blood saturated thoughts.

"This isn't like you, this mood of yours isn't fit for much. Come, we'll find something to do in the markets." He is smiling at her with a hand placed lazily on the table, he pulls her out of her chair and into the bright street. Making their way towards the apex of mingling smells, they find that the market is indeed busy, nobles mingling with the district's poorer counterparts, "What you Fereldens don't seem to know is that there is so much under the veneer of these streets, the people are all bluffing, hiding some deep tempestuous secret. This you would like to see."

Persia falls behind a little as Zevran leads her to Edmée's shop, perhaps she doesn't want to know these things and he smirks knowingly; the sunshine illuminating the lighter shades of his hair as he turns to look through the shop window.

She feels herself bristling, stepping back, "I'm not sure about this, we should move on to someone else."

His hand is wrapped around hers before she can shrink back, "She is vivacious, sweet and young. Nothing so special, but she gives you discounts and has a fondness for that noble we visited. What was his name?"

"Dean Rose."

"Now that is fascinating, you see that isn't even his full name. Noblemen hide secrets so well here when one knows where to apply the right pressure and proper investments. Bards are excellent for this, no? Ah, if Leliana were here, the tales she could tell us."

There is a hard glint to his eyes, the smile enigmatic because this is why he brought her here, not to discount her friend, but to inform her. It would still hurt. _What is it I should have known?_ "He isn't Orlesian, is he?"

The answer is already in the arc of his voice, chastising her for not seeing it. "Oh, he is Orlesian... of a sort. It just so happens that his father spent a lot of time in Ferleden during the war, he was quite circumspect and sly when the Theirin line was back in power. They have a small holding in the Bannorn. He adopted his surname from it: Dallin."

"You said it was just a small holding and many Orlesians kept a hand in Ferelden after the war! What does it mean?" Her shoulders are slumping of their own accord, her hands covering her eyes, still listening. _I have certainly been a fool._

"The senior Dallin sent him to Orlais, he has only been here for a year and a half. It was on orders from the King. It didn't take long for him to know what I knew, surely others saw you depart and arrive here." Deftly his fingers are drawing circles over the bones of her hands, his voice going soft, "What I gathered from Dallin and this dressmaker? The King is having regrets."

The pounding in her head feels like the morning after trying to drink Oghren under the table, when she can speak it comes out harsher than she intended, "What _regrets_?"

"Who am I to know the thought of that dull man. Maybe that he should have married you. He is also rather upset that you evaded your duty to the crown. But, it is how they planned on delivering you to the King that is fascinating."

Zevran maneuvered them away from the crown into a convenient nook by the shop before she could ask, "When I read over the correspondence between Dallin and his father there was some plan. The Dallin family didn't think you would return to Ferelden without a fight, or at the very least, in chains. The plan was to drug you at one of the many soirees the son was to give. It was to be slow acting drug that could be easily passed off as a drunk that would soon result in unconsciousness. Then you would have been bound and shipped off down the Waking Sea to the arms of the King. I wonder, what he would have thought of this had he known?"

"That bastard! Those traitorous whore-sons! I have every right to a life of _my_ own. I gave him that crown, dragged him along every step! If he knew where I was he should have sent a message asking me to come, not this scheme." Persia finds herself shaking with rage, the murderous intent clear for Zevran to see.

His tone is light, but deceptively trying to catch her attention, "You also forced it on him, he complained about it every moment after Redcliffe when you told Eamon what you planned. I often wondered if Ferelden would have accepted a mute king. I considered cutting out his tongue when he plodded all the way through the Brecilian Forest moaning about it."

Bemused, she catches his eye, "I'm sure they would have since Eamon was backing him."

Even when she acknowledges the past, the hurt on her face is clear for anyone to see. Zevran wonders how it wasn't obvious to every Orlesian that she was more than the hurt girl she seemed, he pauses to say something to alleviate it, but there is nothing in his repertoire suited to dealing with this. If he could, it is too late because she is extracting herself from his grip and the nook they are squeezed into.

Her mask is on again and she is calm above the seething mass of disgust building up in her, "Zev, I want to have a chat with Dallin, preferably armed."

He is pleased to oblige her.


	6. Charlatan

_A million roads, a million fears_  
A million suns, ten million years of uncertainty  
I could speak a million lies, a million songs,  
A million rights, a million wrongs in this balance of time  
But if there was a single truth, a single light  
A single thought, a singular touch of grace  
Then following this single point , this single flame,  
The single haunted memory of your face  
 _-Sting, A Thousand years_

**Charlatan**

She considered her plain leather armor in the mirror, she felt it was remarkable that she could even remember after all this time where each strap connected. Pinning up her hair was a habit of the Blight, leaving her hair down anymore had become a symbol of who she was, a reminder that a blank slate was something that never existed. The past was far reaching and if the Dallin family was any example, it was inescapable as well.

 Zevran knocked once before stepping into her room, perhaps hoping to catch her in a varying state of undress. Persia let herself regard him, it was amazing that he wasn't tying his hair back as well, the length of it well down his back and apt to be in the way during a skirmish. He always seemed to be able to look dashing and somehow knife his way through a fray without being covered in quite as much gore at the rest of the companions. Regardless of any weather he was always deeply tanned, one could never be sure if it was simply breeding or a life out in the world that attributed to it.

"You are here barely any time at all and you find some plot that could possibly end in our capture, torture, or death. I never had this problem before."

It is his smile which seems more forced than it should be, his hand rubbing his jaw practiced, "Had you been looking closer you would have seen it clearly. You must be grateful I am here, I could be off being chased by the Crows."

"They are chasing you now, aren't they? All your movements seem like some badly written play, all an act. You are hiding something and I'd rather know now if it is dangerous and completely unavoidable."

She considered biting her tongue, but diplomacy escaped her more often in situations than she would ever like to admit. She wished she never said it because the look on his face isn't pleasant, it is bordered on a sneer. He was a better at pretending than anyone, perhaps better than Leliana. It occurs to Persia that maybe he wanted to be found out, before she can voice it though, he is speaking quickly.

"It isn't the Crows and no one is going to get tortured or killed. You can be sure of that. I'd rather we take care of the real trouble, but the Orlesian guards might notice some well armored people during the day , but we will be much more conspicuous at nightfall. We should go now, we can skirt around the city at twilight, fake leaving if we have to."

"Then lets not waste any more time. What about Thib? Should we take him along?"

"That wouldn't be a good idea considering you are Ferelden and where we might hide thatt, a mabari would give us away completely."

With a soft sigh and sad pat to Thib's head, they head out through the city. They encounter two close calls, but both times Zevran is ready and holds a hand up to stop her. The guards are less alert than they would be at full night, but by the time they reach the estate the light has faded to the merest slivers of gold sinking below the horizon.

The air is oppressive, with the tang of electricity hanging in the air. The door is ajar to the Dallin house. Zevran doesn't speak, but gives her a heavy look and indicates going forward. It is obvious that magic has been performed lately and the damages are clear once she pushes the door aside, the hinges squeaking at their entrance. The foyer is covered in half burned papers, heavy gilt Orlesian vases are cracked and strewn about, every exotic planter is broken, the soil scattered across the floor.

"One mage?" She breathes to Zevran, the damage made it obvious that this was more than some brawl, it was a serious fight. How many men did this person overcome? It was clear that if the Dallin family intended to drag her back to Ferelden that there would be more men in the house to help bring her down.

There is blood on the second door they approach, an arrow embedded in it as well. Well, someone had been in the foyer to shoot it. The air is metallic, this door is half open, partially blown off its hinges. Signaling, they quietly rush in, daggers ready, but they are met with no resistance, just bodies. Eight, no, twelve men dead around this mage slumped over in the corner. Persia is assaulted by the smell of burned flesh, the fire lit in the room showing the hands of the men burnt away, the larger parts of them still smoking.

"Good," it is the word tearing from her throat that makes the man look up. Pure shock runs through her, bolting her to the floor. The sharp, cherished lines of his face, the sweet curve of his lips, but it is the familiar eyes that undo her; honey colored and honest in the firelight, but furtive at the sight of well armed people.

This is not the same man and she thinks Andraste must be laughing somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After playing Inquisition I'd say there are far more parallels between Alistair and Cullen than Anders, but well, I've got a story arch going and that's just how it is for now. I do have plenty of ideas for a F!Mage Inquisitor and Cullen for another time.


End file.
